Part 2The Long-Silent Woman by My Side

The line went silent for a moment. When Eva spoke again, her voice was as calm and placid as ever.

"Since you know, I might as well be clear."

There was no hesitation, no attempt to hide. Each word was a sharp, deliberate cut into my heart.

"I promised Jules my cooking was for him and him alone. That's a promise I made to him, and I won't break it for anyone."

A promise?

For a promise to another man, she would stand by and watch my entire world crumble?

A wave of fury, mixed with a bitter taste of despair, crashed over me.

"So that's it?" I demanded, my voice shaking. "You'd just watch the bistro die? Watch me drown in anxiety every single day? Eva, with your reputation, you wouldn't even have to cook! You could just show up, say a few words, or—or even just let me use your name! That alone could have saved us!"

My voice rose to a sharp, unfamiliar pitch.

Eva just listened quietly. When I was done shouting, she delivered her final, cruel blow. "That bistro was always going to fail, Leo. Stop fighting a losing battle."

Her words severed my last thread of hope.

"You're disgusting, Eva."

I spat the words out with what little defiance I had left and hung up, feeling like all the strength had been drained from my body. Just then, a notification popped up on my screen.

【Eva & Ross's Table is LIVE! Ross's back in the country for a surprise reunion with Eva!】

My thumb moved on its own, clicking the link.

There was Ross, as charming as ever. And next to him, wearing an apron and expertly tossing a wok, was my wife.

The woman who, in my kitchen, couldn't tell salt from sugar was now a whirlwind of graceful precision, her control over the heat and ingredients absolute. She would occasionally turn to speak with Ross, her eyes filled with a focus and warmth I had never, ever seen directed at me.

"Be careful, Jules. It's hot." She took a plate from his hands, her movements gentle and natural.

Then, a little boy, maybe five or six years old, appeared on camera. Ross introduced him as his son, who was fascinated by cooking. Eva knelt, her patience seemingly infinite, and guided the boy's hands as he tried to chop a vegetable. Her voice was softer than I'd ever heard it.

"That's right, sweetheart, keep your wrist steady. You're so smart."

She called him sweetheart. She smiled at him with such genuine tenderness.

My son, Toby... she would hold him sometimes, but she had never once shown him that kind of patient affection. When Toby would bring her a picture book, begging for a story, she'd always say, "Mommy's tired." When he proudly showed her a gold star he'd earned at preschool, she'd offer a lukewarm, "Hmm, that's nice."

...

These images were razor blades, shredding the last of my delusions. I closed the livestream, my chest heaving, but my eyes remained stubbornly dry.

Just then, the front door opened. It was Toby, home from school. He didn't even take off his little backpack before he threw himself into my arms and burst into tears.

"Daddy... sniff... the other kids said... they said Mommy doesn't want us anymore... They said she has a new baby now, and she doesn't want Toby..."

He sobbed hysterically, his little face turning red. "I want Mommy! I can't live without Mommy..."

Seeing my son's raw fear and pain extinguished the fire of my own rage. My resolve to burn everything to the ground vanished.

He was right. Toby needed his mother. What would happen to him if Eva and I were at war?

I held my son tight, forcing myself to breathe, to calm down. I decided to give her one last chance.

I sent her a text.

"Toby's birthday is tomorrow. Be home early."

It took a long time for her to reply.

"Got it."